Evening Standard: Confessions of a middle-class graffiti addict
As the Government a crackdown on graffiti, a young record industry executive tells how he became an underground hero. By David Rowan
JASON HAMILTON leads a double life. By day, the 27-year-old record producer juggles the pressures ofa media executive's lifestyle, dashing between studio sessions and client meetings that he hopes will clinch the next lucrative deal. Late at night, however, the professional mask slips as Jason swaps the comforts of his digital mixing suite for a far more hostile terrain.
Armed with a facemask, wirecutters and a rucksack stuffed with paint cans, he breaks in to unguarded train depots and rail sidings on a high-risk criminal mission: to leave his mark on a Tube carriage or railway car, and escape before the morning's commuters arrive. For Jason, the well-spoken son of two civil servants, is one of London's growing band of middleclass graffiti writers - well-educated professionals who risk jail and large fines for the thrill of spraypainting trains and railway yards.
As the Government this week announced a crackdown on graffiti - giving police powers to stop and search those suspected of carrying spray cans - Jason's story offers a stark warning that the new threats of arrest will do nothing to dissuade hardcore offenders such as him from chasing what they regard as the ultimate buzz.
He knows it is a dangerous "hobby" - a fellow London graffiti painter, known as "Moody", was killed by a train at Catford station last summer - but, for Jason, the fear itself is part of the attraction. "Two, maybe three times a week I put myself under high stress, going into places where human beings were never meant to tread," he explains in a smart Camden Town gastro-pub favoured by media types. "But all the tension is worthwhile for the pleasure of seeing your work running on the line. "Nothing beats the instant satisfaction of graffiti - everything you've had in your head all day just vanishes, and there's just you, the train, your friends and the sense of what you're creating."
It has taken four months of negotiation to arrange a series of meetings with Jason, whose pride in his "canvases" - he clearly has an artistic talent - is matched only by his fear of being caught. He paints over CCTV lenses before entering a train yard, and will only be contacted via email or through trusted intermediaries. For Jason knows he is a wanted man blamed for vandalism that carries an ever-increasing cost to Londoners.
In May, the London Assembly estimated that graffiti cost London £100 million each year in cleaning bills and lost investment - diverting cash that could otherwise be spent improving public transport, schools and hospitals. The assembly's graffiti committee reported that this "increasingly prevalent and obnoxious crime" had grown dramatically over the past five years, degrading streets, houses, buses and trains, and "engendering an atmosphere of neglect and criminality". Yet, despite its image as a crime committed by underprivileged teenagers, the committee found graffiti was more and more the work of affluent professionals like Jason.
So why do men - and occasionally women - in their twenties and thirties risk their careers and freedom to "bomb" London's streetscapes with those scrawled nicknames known as "tags"? Adam Smith, who is involved with an underground magazine Bomb Alert, says: "People of all backgrounds do 'graf ', middleclass kids and even some upper-class kids. For some, it's a fame thing, wanting to be recognised by their peers; for others it's simply the buzz. Personally, I find it interesting that some people continue to write when they have got a job and kids."
The greatest kudos, he says, is accorded to those who have been caught more than once, yet continue to break the law.
SINCE he was 11, Jason has - by his own admission - left his mark on many hundreds, if not thousands, of trains, tracksides and walls. His "pieces" have decorated the Central and Hammersmith and City lines, the South-East's commuter trains, and spaces ranging from council-block garages to children's playgrounds. Although he has been caught seven times and fined three times in court, Jason cannot see a day when he would forgo the buzz that he says is greater than anything drugs can offer.
Like other professionals who share his secret passion - and Jason knows a nurse, a headhunter and a City banker who are active - he says he is willing to risk prison to fulfil what he considers his true vocation. "When you're used to such regular thrills, it's very hard to give up," he says. "Why would I take away such a big, exciting section of my life to be left on Saturday nights watching reality TV?"
Jason was first arrested and cautioned when he was 13. Yet, despite his extensive record, he has never been fined more than £1,000. He cannot see the new restrictions changing his behaviour. It is his day job, he says, that has persuaded magistrates to keep him out of prison.
"Obviously I don't want to go to prison and, yes, I've got more to lose now. But there are things I want to paint that have been in my head since I was 11. I couldn't draw them for you on paper, but I'll just know when I've done them."
For Jason, the attraction lies in the combination of fear and total concentration that a night-time raid achieves. "You feel like Scott of the Antarctic, exploring new territories: from the moment you enter a train yard, you're in a state of extreme alertness. "It starts off as nerves but then the feeling changes as your entire consciousness is focused on the one act, as you worry about staying alive and not getting caught.
"I don't do it for the adrenaline rush, although that's what works for some people. I do it because it's a struggle to create something against the odds, and - in 30 minutes or an hour - to make something beautiful out of the most inhospitable corners, and feeling you've got away with it."
His first work, copied out of a book of New York subway art, covered the garage door on a council estate near his school, the local comprehensive, in a prosperous market town an hour north of London. Since then the urge has never left him.
HE left school after A-levels and moved to London for its graffiti culture. He dropped out of art college after a year to take a number of jobs in graphic design and music. At every stage he has spent his spare nights, quite literally, painting the town. Even his holidays are devoted to graffiti. He recently spent a week in Germany painting trains. Through an informal network European graffiti-ists, he was put up for free in homes in Berlin and Cologne, and taken out at night deface some of the local sites.
Even among London's most active graffiti crews - with names such as the Diabolical Dub Stars and Total Kaos - Jason's longevity and artistic talent have earned his "tag" a certain celebrity status. At six foot and good-looking, with short black hair and a day's facial growth, he is certainly no geek. However, his devotion graffiti does ensure there are times - such as now - when is between girlfriends. "Girls are initially excited what I do, thinking it's daring and cool," he says. "But when they realise the grim reality of me disappearing all weekend, coming back covered in paint and wanting to get into bed with them, then it becomes less attractive."
For obvious reasons, the secrecy extends to Jason's workplace. "I like the romance of not telling my clients what I do - the double life appeals to me, having one identity at work and a notoriety in this other world, where no one knows who you are.
"I'll be out painting trains all night, sitting in a bush waiting for the cleaners to finish, thinking, I've got to be at work by 10 to pitch at a client meeting.' One time I was part of a presentation to a group of investors and I looked down and noticed yellow paint still on my hands. I quickly hid them under the table and carried on."
BUT what of the GLA's view that graffiti is "blighting" large areas of London, raising people's fears of crime, deterring investment and costing millions to clean up that could be spent on public services and better transport? What of the £100 million bill being blamed on lawbreakers like Jason?
"Show me the receipts," he says dismissively. "The cost is always grossly over-exaggerated. Graffiti is politicians' favourite kneejerk target simply because it is so visible. We're not smashing windows or slashing seats - the only damage we ever leave is the hole in the fence, and we wouldn't do that if they didn't build the fence.
"Yes, I can see why an old lady on a graffiti-covered estate might feel vulnerable but not why the rest of society should."
Statistically, it is only a matter of time before Jason Hamilton is arrested again. His tags feature on the British Transport Police database of 2,000 names, and since the death of his fellow graffiti vandal James "Moody" Dutka in May - police and rail operators have stepped up efforts to catch the perpetrators.
But, whatever the penalties he faces and however intense the police crackdowns, Jason insists that he will stop only when he is ready. He also defies politicians who claim that tougher penalties will by themselves clean up the streets.
"Graffiti culture has been around in Britain for 20 years," he says. "This is more than just a trend."
[Names have been changed]
(Evening Standard, November 20 2002)
JASON HAMILTON leads a double life. By day, the 27-year-old record producer juggles the pressures ofa media executive's lifestyle, dashing between studio sessions and client meetings that he hopes will clinch the next lucrative deal. Late at night, however, the professional mask slips as Jason swaps the comforts of his digital mixing suite for a far more hostile terrain.
Armed with a facemask, wirecutters and a rucksack stuffed with paint cans, he breaks in to unguarded train depots and rail sidings on a high-risk criminal mission: to leave his mark on a Tube carriage or railway car, and escape before the morning's commuters arrive. For Jason, the well-spoken son of two civil servants, is one of London's growing band of middleclass graffiti writers - well-educated professionals who risk jail and large fines for the thrill of spraypainting trains and railway yards.
As the Government this week announced a crackdown on graffiti - giving police powers to stop and search those suspected of carrying spray cans - Jason's story offers a stark warning that the new threats of arrest will do nothing to dissuade hardcore offenders such as him from chasing what they regard as the ultimate buzz.
He knows it is a dangerous "hobby" - a fellow London graffiti painter, known as "Moody", was killed by a train at Catford station last summer - but, for Jason, the fear itself is part of the attraction. "Two, maybe three times a week I put myself under high stress, going into places where human beings were never meant to tread," he explains in a smart Camden Town gastro-pub favoured by media types. "But all the tension is worthwhile for the pleasure of seeing your work running on the line. "Nothing beats the instant satisfaction of graffiti - everything you've had in your head all day just vanishes, and there's just you, the train, your friends and the sense of what you're creating."
It has taken four months of negotiation to arrange a series of meetings with Jason, whose pride in his "canvases" - he clearly has an artistic talent - is matched only by his fear of being caught. He paints over CCTV lenses before entering a train yard, and will only be contacted via email or through trusted intermediaries. For Jason knows he is a wanted man blamed for vandalism that carries an ever-increasing cost to Londoners.
In May, the London Assembly estimated that graffiti cost London £100 million each year in cleaning bills and lost investment - diverting cash that could otherwise be spent improving public transport, schools and hospitals. The assembly's graffiti committee reported that this "increasingly prevalent and obnoxious crime" had grown dramatically over the past five years, degrading streets, houses, buses and trains, and "engendering an atmosphere of neglect and criminality". Yet, despite its image as a crime committed by underprivileged teenagers, the committee found graffiti was more and more the work of affluent professionals like Jason.
So why do men - and occasionally women - in their twenties and thirties risk their careers and freedom to "bomb" London's streetscapes with those scrawled nicknames known as "tags"? Adam Smith, who is involved with an underground magazine Bomb Alert, says: "People of all backgrounds do 'graf ', middleclass kids and even some upper-class kids. For some, it's a fame thing, wanting to be recognised by their peers; for others it's simply the buzz. Personally, I find it interesting that some people continue to write when they have got a job and kids."
The greatest kudos, he says, is accorded to those who have been caught more than once, yet continue to break the law.
SINCE he was 11, Jason has - by his own admission - left his mark on many hundreds, if not thousands, of trains, tracksides and walls. His "pieces" have decorated the Central and Hammersmith and City lines, the South-East's commuter trains, and spaces ranging from council-block garages to children's playgrounds. Although he has been caught seven times and fined three times in court, Jason cannot see a day when he would forgo the buzz that he says is greater than anything drugs can offer.
Like other professionals who share his secret passion - and Jason knows a nurse, a headhunter and a City banker who are active - he says he is willing to risk prison to fulfil what he considers his true vocation. "When you're used to such regular thrills, it's very hard to give up," he says. "Why would I take away such a big, exciting section of my life to be left on Saturday nights watching reality TV?"
Jason was first arrested and cautioned when he was 13. Yet, despite his extensive record, he has never been fined more than £1,000. He cannot see the new restrictions changing his behaviour. It is his day job, he says, that has persuaded magistrates to keep him out of prison.
"Obviously I don't want to go to prison and, yes, I've got more to lose now. But there are things I want to paint that have been in my head since I was 11. I couldn't draw them for you on paper, but I'll just know when I've done them."
For Jason, the attraction lies in the combination of fear and total concentration that a night-time raid achieves. "You feel like Scott of the Antarctic, exploring new territories: from the moment you enter a train yard, you're in a state of extreme alertness. "It starts off as nerves but then the feeling changes as your entire consciousness is focused on the one act, as you worry about staying alive and not getting caught.
"I don't do it for the adrenaline rush, although that's what works for some people. I do it because it's a struggle to create something against the odds, and - in 30 minutes or an hour - to make something beautiful out of the most inhospitable corners, and feeling you've got away with it."
His first work, copied out of a book of New York subway art, covered the garage door on a council estate near his school, the local comprehensive, in a prosperous market town an hour north of London. Since then the urge has never left him.
HE left school after A-levels and moved to London for its graffiti culture. He dropped out of art college after a year to take a number of jobs in graphic design and music. At every stage he has spent his spare nights, quite literally, painting the town. Even his holidays are devoted to graffiti. He recently spent a week in Germany painting trains. Through an informal network European graffiti-ists, he was put up for free in homes in Berlin and Cologne, and taken out at night deface some of the local sites.
Even among London's most active graffiti crews - with names such as the Diabolical Dub Stars and Total Kaos - Jason's longevity and artistic talent have earned his "tag" a certain celebrity status. At six foot and good-looking, with short black hair and a day's facial growth, he is certainly no geek. However, his devotion graffiti does ensure there are times - such as now - when is between girlfriends. "Girls are initially excited what I do, thinking it's daring and cool," he says. "But when they realise the grim reality of me disappearing all weekend, coming back covered in paint and wanting to get into bed with them, then it becomes less attractive."
For obvious reasons, the secrecy extends to Jason's workplace. "I like the romance of not telling my clients what I do - the double life appeals to me, having one identity at work and a notoriety in this other world, where no one knows who you are.
"I'll be out painting trains all night, sitting in a bush waiting for the cleaners to finish, thinking, I've got to be at work by 10 to pitch at a client meeting.' One time I was part of a presentation to a group of investors and I looked down and noticed yellow paint still on my hands. I quickly hid them under the table and carried on."
BUT what of the GLA's view that graffiti is "blighting" large areas of London, raising people's fears of crime, deterring investment and costing millions to clean up that could be spent on public services and better transport? What of the £100 million bill being blamed on lawbreakers like Jason?
"Show me the receipts," he says dismissively. "The cost is always grossly over-exaggerated. Graffiti is politicians' favourite kneejerk target simply because it is so visible. We're not smashing windows or slashing seats - the only damage we ever leave is the hole in the fence, and we wouldn't do that if they didn't build the fence.
"Yes, I can see why an old lady on a graffiti-covered estate might feel vulnerable but not why the rest of society should."
Statistically, it is only a matter of time before Jason Hamilton is arrested again. His tags feature on the British Transport Police database of 2,000 names, and since the death of his fellow graffiti vandal James "Moody" Dutka in May - police and rail operators have stepped up efforts to catch the perpetrators.
But, whatever the penalties he faces and however intense the police crackdowns, Jason insists that he will stop only when he is ready. He also defies politicians who claim that tougher penalties will by themselves clean up the streets.
"Graffiti culture has been around in Britain for 20 years," he says. "This is more than just a trend."
[Names have been changed]
(Evening Standard, November 20 2002)
posted by David Rowan at Wednesday, November 20, 2002
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